


Under the Roses Thorn

by DivineBlade



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:09:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineBlade/pseuds/DivineBlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of the quest, Dagon Shrine, Martin Septim falls out of love with the hero of Kvatch and into madness with a book and a curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_By the Nine! Such a thing is dangerous even to handle!_ He breathes but the rest of the words slacken in a drawl, drowned under a torrent of buzzing sluggish noises, and then he has wax in his ears and hot coal on his tongue and his eyes want for nothing but to follow the swift fall of the book, the yellowed pages and the tattered binding as it hits the surface of the aged polished wood. It throbs with raw power and promises of enlightenment and something…, eerie, different, nothing like the seduction of the black arts he’s experienced in his wayward youth and it takes all of his willpower to stop his fingers from edging towards it, to caress the faded, washed out words and seek the answer to these haunting siren songs. He tries to tear his eyes away, tries to make sense of his disarrayed thoughts, but what leaves his lips is a faint alien sound, _You’d... better give it to me. I know some ways to protect myself from its evil power._

* * *

_-this is the first memory Mysterium Xarxes claims as its own. It marks his psych, splitting it in two halves; one impaled by the myriads of raven black feathers, the other shrouded in blackened blood._

 

* * *

 

_i-_ Mornings are always cold in Cloud ruler temple.

 At first this is a welcome change from the ever glowing embers of Kvatch, the scent of charred flesh and the blinding smoke that haunts his dreams. It helps him ease into a reality no less incredulous, if by nothing than shear contrast. But as the days drag on, the cold begins to seep in, through the passage of his long loose sleeves and the hand –mended hem of his old robs, past the hollow of his throat and his blood rimmed eyes and nestles down in the marrow of his bones, so deep that even the daily sword sessions with captain Stephan cannot quite chase it out.

 Jauffre suggests a change of clothes: light armor, tasteful, sturdy and practical, nothing like those jeweled and embroidered silk he has so foolishly feared, but still, it must be declined.

It is not something you can don only to discard it by the evening, -a priest’s rob, is a promise sealed in austerity, something that never quite fits save those who’ve outgrown it, and Martin penitence is hard gained and nowhere near fulfilled; although it seems strange to preach of such things to one who’s guided the men of faith through their journeys for the better part of his life. But Jauffre’s gods have always been tangible, their commands clear and their might radiant under the royal crown and on the golden throne, and now that the emperor lies dead, all their prayers are nothing but whispers entrusted to passing winds.

-no echo, no shadow just silence penetrated solely by the sound of one’s own heartbeats, to pour water down the parched throat from an empty cup, conjuring hope where there is none to be found; such is the faith of the atheist priest, the procurator of the silent gods, one that the grandmaster and his Blades must come to know if their champion returns empty handed, lest despair would consume them whole.

Except that hope dawdles here, still, even as outside, the fires of oblivion burn crimson and black spitting his beloved Tamriel out in bloody bits and pieces. he sees it, sharp as a barbed blade, in the steady defiant gazes of the men and women, who guard these halls, who disperse only to cluster about his weekend form Who revere him as if he was Akotash- impersonate. Leeching themselves on him, seeking to be fed not realizing that the cup is empty and what they’re sapping away is his blood.

It is uncalled for, he knows, this bitterness, the rancid taste of his thoughts he almost chokes on, even as the bloody hooks of betrayal come dragging through his mind. They cannot steal what he gives away freely. It is a game he too, reluctantly, plays. Walking amongst them, words of reassurance pouring from his lips in careless abandon, it is the priest in him- he tries to reason with someone who is no longer there- He has spent too much time being lighter than a wisp of air, a vessel to convey the wills of an all-consuming voice, more intimate than the single strand of hair falling between one lover’s lips and the other’s ear. No more hindering than the shadow of the dagger against the throbbing pulse.

But here even his shadow slips off the walls and floor like a tangible obscuring presence, falling around him in ominous tidal waves and yet failing to shroud him from the prying eyes of his watchers who gaze through him as if looking for the leftover scraps of the gods that have forsak-

Excuses, _all excuses_ , he knows; by barricading himself inside a fortress of dusty old tomes, he takes a cowards way out while holding on to his hand me down cloister robs, the tattered remains of his old life ( _lies, all lies…his past or their words?)_ the question gnaws at him and the books offer no answer, the truth lies with the amulet and when ( _if?_ ) it slips away from his neck down to the cold floor there would be no helping, no _saving_ them all from the topple down the empty space behind the curtain that is Martin Septim.

but should the amulet stay on…  _what then?… would_ … words fail him and the question falls on a silent note and fear spreads roots in his heart with those thoughts like a tainted bloom. _Coward_ , he thinks. But with them also comes something else, a sliver of light that glows in the pittless black and he has to bite back a scornful laugh at the hypocrite that he is, for, despite the fear, the despair and the broken figurines who used to be his gods, he too still holds hope, for her return, for that brief salvation she brought him on that accursed night, even be it by the edge of a sword, for by himself, Martin knows, he is not enough – _strong… substantial_ \- to protect them should the worst come to pass, alone, he cannot break their fall, _but with you by my side,_ he breathes, _then_ … _perhaps_ … _perhaps_ …

But the seat beside him is empty. The silence extends far in every corner. And he has never been this alone in all his life. 


	2. Chapter 2

_It is said that Tiber Septim, the Dragon of north, was felled by no mortal blow but a betrayal of the one whose heart he thought closest to his own. And so atrocious was the crime, and so mad was he was with grief that with his dying breath he cried out to the gods, invoking their divine judgment. Thus, the betrayer was smitten down, his undeserving heart torn out, and his kin cast in the image of the viper that he was, yet with no venom save for the flesh of their own. Bound to the service of the very blood he had betrayed, they were to remain until the day the debt was repaid in kind. But gods care little for the affairs of the mortal hearts and their justice is often a two bladed sword, like the curse that was carried in blood, the poison that was brewed in contempt, and the longing that sowed in the hearts of the sundered house of Septim, seeds of a flower, blooming only in thorns._

* * *

 

_ii_ :

She comes and goes as she pleases. And he wouldn’t have known, caged up in his room and his wards, the ever willing prisoner trying to decipher the illusive whispers of a tome that will not give. Except that there is something in the wind, in the shimmering dance of light on the flakes of snow, that crawls under his skin, a prickling feeling, a call of something he cannot quite comprehend.

There is-

a morning glory left behind on a corner table of the mess hall, by the mortar, a set of whetstones placed in the most orderly fashion, he has heard the whispers of her arrivals in the midnight, unannounced, her knuckles on the door, beats of three, decisive and sharp like the pale amber of her eyes as she takes them in, him and the Xarxes, and the commentaries- well thumbed, with displeasure curling at the corner of her red marble mouth, and he has to bit back something hot and unruly that rises at the back of his throat even as he says in a placating tone with a consolatory gesture of hands, “come sit with me, you must be tired.” and thinks inwardly, spitefully, in spite of himself.

“Weren’t they spies you were to deal with?”

“Not anymore.” Jauffre informs him as they make way amidst the snow covered courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, a pensive look on his time worn features as the howling wind rattles the ever vigilant silence of his Blades guarding against that arrow, that spell that might strike true where a horde of daedra failed. And Martin who is eyeing the silver arch of mountains, in the crisp bone-drying chill of Bruma’s dawn, and thinking almost longingly of the lazy warmth of the library wing, with dusty pages of Mysterium Xarxes between his fingers and Mancos Cameron velveteen words on his lips, is thrown back through time, to a night hazy around the edges when he stood shoulder almost grazing hers and watched the maws of oblivion sprout like flameflowers all through the Jerald mountains and beyond, her fingers brushing absentmindedly, a prayer to the hilt of her sword, face all sharp edges and deep shadows illuminated by the harsh glow of torches. And the tender tendrils of sorrow that had bound his heart in regret then, overshadowing the fear of the impendent fall, the knowledge that regardless of her prowess in battle he was sending someone, something precious, to the heart of darkness. Where did it all go? he wonders.

 “She can be trusted,” Jauffre says shrewd eyes now fixated on him “her kind’s… kin’s,” he amends, “mettle has been tested in fire” his mouth tightens at this, as if it displeases him somehow. The pastor warrior with love solely for the deserving that is not love at all, Martin wonders if he fancy himself a mind reader, he is not. It is not of all things a matter of trust, (what is it, then?) “She is my friend,” he says, insides cold. And she is. She was. before the messenger brought tidings of Baurus and whisked her away, beside him in the library wing, fingers dancing on the battered spines, parchment washed green in the soft glow of their joint spells, _I am after all a master of illusions_ , despite the ill stars that must have shined on the hour of their meeting, he hadn’t felt such joy, the genial company of a kindred mind, since before Kvatch, before the abbey and Sanguine- when magic was only knowledge and still-not-quite power and so devastatingly beautiful in its innocence.

“Just so,” Jauffre says, holding his gaze like they are both privy to a secret, one he does not particularly approve of. More a pastor than warrior, a gone-sour blend of both perhaps? “You’ve seemed distant lately,” he continues and leaves Martin’s already disarrayed mind fumbling to find the reason behind the seemingly abrupt change of topic.

“Time is of an essence here,” he says, words laden with a pregnant pause, “but we cannot afford to lose you, Martin, not to the daedra, certainly not to the Mehrunes Dagon, nor to his paradise.”

_Ah_ , Martin thinks, at last, the crux of the matter, the design behind this morning stroll, now it all unfolds.

“I am as prudent as we all can afford to be, in these times.” He says, more indulgently than he feels.” Fear not my friend, the daedra are seldom subtle in their acts of aggression.”

The grandmaster of the Blades tilts his head, eyes sharp, reproachful, posture a mockery of surrender. Martin was not aware that this was a battle until now, hadn’t noticed his own hands balled up in a fist, knuckles white. “The daedra, never offer more than they take” he says, “You need to strengthen your wards.”

Martin patient runs thin, snapping almost in contempt his words reverberating still, through the silence that settles long after they are gone.

"I cannot. Not before I find a way, I need to maintain a connection. Lest all our effort will be for naught,”

 “Just so.” Jauffre says, willing the matter drop. No matter how he looks at it, it feels like a battle lost.

* * *

 

Mehrunes Dagan, Martin knows, does not deal in treachery. He deceives no soul as he carves an open wound through the spoils of his conquests. he claims only what, those, he’s crushed under the shear might of his will suffering no sovereignty but that of his own, the Daedric Prince he thinks, for whatever it’s worth, is honest in his brutality.

The daedra never offer more than they take, of that he is well aware, -he confides in her one almost dawn, voice tired and tried, roughened with despair and the steadfast slip of the smooth sand through the hourglass. It is simply that with the very survival of Mundus at stake, he wonders if any price would be unreasonable.

“That is a dangerous path to tread on,” she says. Thinned serpentine pupils belying the mild tone- he had thought her beautiful once.

“Yes,” he allows, “some might even say, as dangerous as braving the blood rust rivers of oblivion.”

“I venture my life,” she says. Pauses, parries, “whereas you risk us all.”

* * *

 

There is a rift, in what was once congenial. A falling out, echoes of an eddy lost in the ever churning cascade of time. 

_Tell me of the wastelands of oblivion_ he asks her on the nights frizzled with impatience of the nerves snap taut -her departure hindered by raging blizzards and on the dawns when she has returned icy-gazed and voice the rasping cold of the snow sprites. Watches her avidly as she turns stone-grim with the tales of her own exploits, of horrors that should shake him to the core and yet. And yet.

* * *

 

She brings him books, tomes, scrolls, remnants of personal libraries, museums, plundered from some treasuries and hoarded in others, some untouched, the books’ spines never even cracked and ones so old almost falling apart.

There are days when her sight is like salt on open wounds and her imminent departure is a blessing, salve soothing raw nerves. and there are days when her presence is something short of overbearing, and her absence brings forth such sudden surge of longing that he is forced to look back to ponder what Jauffre must have insinuated. But he has known lust, crude and unkempt and wondrous like a wildfire lapping at the dross of his youth and love, in the aftermath through the barren fields of grief, and this is, she is-

-Two part aggravation and one part pride. The rest are more subtle like the wide arc of her sword’s swoop, the scars she secretes and the way she fights her best, surrounded by the seas foes, alone. 

He had thought her beautiful once, perfection incarnate, charging the gate of darkness outshining the brightest flames of oblivion all righteous fury and impossible strength- godsend, he had thought, a blessing of Akotash, a sign that perhaps there was still hope for his city (for him) but later amongst the smoking horrors of the night’s past she’d told him of a plan not necessarily divine, an infidel father and an entire city laid waste in his name, (the blood on his hands would never come off.)

Oh, how the daylight had revealed the imperfections, failure does not become her he thinks, it settles wrong on her shoulders, makes her gaze cut like a jagged diamond, gives an inhuman edge to her movements, impossible stillness, lightning quick reflexes, like an animal, cornered.

How long did it all last? He wonders, a split second? A litany of days? by the time he had cared to look for it again, she has regained her footing, gone was the desperate edge of her decisiveness, in its place was once again that infuriating languid grace, except he knows it’s only skin deep now, he has seen behind the cracks of the faux serenity and the rigid complexion, the blood curdling fear and a touch of mortality.

* * *

 

Road-weary and battle-battered she reads to him, when his eyes fail him and all he hears in his head is Mankar Camoran’s razor red verses, and still the link missing and time slipping and him thinking, fervently, desperately thinking, how long did it took for the mad prophet to grow hoarse with gospel, for the usurper to go under the lliat (days, months, years?)

“Tell me something,” he says one eventide, the red of the ink bleeding into the dark under his fingers in the faltering light of the dying of spell, her eyes shining like molten lava. “What comes before life _?_ ”

“Duty.” she says, swiftly, tongue not still loosened despite fatigue.

“And before duty?” He pushes, palm flat on the open pages, the mad prophet’s words resting on his fingertips.

“Honor.” somber and solemn she says and oh how it would’ve riled Jauffre to hear this, more than the sight of her Katana-less armored waist. Can be trusted indeed! And a voice says inside his head in a gleeful croon _and the Tower-traitors shall hang on glass wracks until they smile with the new revolution._

“What honor remains for one forsaking duty?” Martin questions, in a softer tone than he intended as she reclines against the wall, eyes averted, features unreadable in the darkness.

“What honor lies in abiding the orders of an unjust lord?” She muses out loud.

“Not every order bodes complying.” she says, “Not very alter is worthy of a sacrifices.”

_“She squired for the late prince at your father’s request for some years,” Jauffre had said words clipped, sharp, cutting despite the wind._

_And all Martin had heard was Ebel. Ebel. Ebel._

“And before honor? that which comes before all?”

“Blood.”

_“He was my friend,” she had said._

_“And yet you left, roamed the countryside for ten years.” Left him for dead, is what he hadn't said._

* * *

 

At the dawn break, shadows softening on his slumbering features, commentaries laid open under his palm, the line hidden beneath reads, _Woe to the oath-breakers!_

* * *

 

Martin misses the green, the golden blue satin of the rivers and the fall of the morning dew against his cheeks. It is difficult, loving Tamriel from here, with Mankar Camoran velveteen venom coursing through his vein and sharp talons of Mehrunes Dagon dragging against the edges of his sanity.

“I have nothing for you,” he tells her. At last, peace granted by defeat. Surrounded by a sea of secrets, surrendered, his land torn apart, despite the knowledge applied and the spells tried and still, no result yielded. He watches his fingers brush a caress to the cursed tome of razors, so foolish, he thinks as he tears them away, head swirling, inevitable still, he wants to say, there was no other choice, and yet. And yet.  

“then, we shall hold them back for as long as you require,” she replies steadily and seats herself beside him, holding his gaze as he takes her in, truly for the first time in weeks, noticing the hurts and the blemishes and scarred tissues thrice healed, and despite the seething, clawing voice, cloying the deep recesses of his mind there is something, soft finger tips of a memory fluttering on the edge of his perception of someone, he might’ve once loved

“You are capable of seeing the beauty in the corrupt.” She says in a rueful tone, eyes softening with a shade of azure.

He dismisses it with a mirthless laugh, “It feels like I haven’t seen anything clearly for a while now.”

“You need stronger wards,” she says.

“I.., yes,” he concedes. Tipping his head back, closing his eyes, he wishes the fever to retreat, thinking of clear skies.

“Tell me of Cyrodill.” He asks her, wistfully.

Fingers drumming against the aged wood, softest traces of a smile in her tone, Aryander complies.

* * *

 

_And then she was back; winded and windswept, with vine like trail of murky black scars hidden under grey steel. And his heart had swelled like it could no longer fit within his ribs and his breath had caught and then fluttered, as he’d thought: she has come, she has come and finally this nightmare can come to an end. But his joy was short-lived, for she had come, sans the amulet and with a book he watched her let go of on his study desk and then a seam was pulled, a thread was unraveled, and nothing could be the same ever again._


End file.
